


Teacher's Pet

by draculard



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Solar Pons Series - August Derleth
Genre: Age Difference, First Time, Inexperienced Solar Pons, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Sloppy Makeouts, Sorry guys, Stops short of being actual smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22793554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: When a nervous young man shows up at 221B Baker Street, it's Holmes's obligation as host to help him out.Er, fuck him, that is.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Solar Pons





	Teacher's Pet

The young man who entered the study at 221B Baker Street was tall and lean and would have been handsome, Holmes thought, if he weren’t dressed in what appeared to be a Sherlock Holmes costume complete with Inverness cape and deerstalker hat.

“Yes,” Holmes said, rather blandly, as the young man hesitated in the doorway. “How might I help you, sir?”

For a long moment, the young man said nothing. He only blushed. 

Holmes’s patience could only stretch so far. “Out with it, then,” he said, gesturing for the young man to speak. This only served to intensify the blush, but when Holmes’s visitor spoke, his voice was steady and firm.

“Solar Pons, sir,” he said, and hesitated just a second before going on. “Consulting detective.”

You could hear a pin drop.

“So this is a joke,” said Holmes. “Right?”

The young man — Pons — stared down at his feet. The misery on his long face said everything.

“So,” said Holmes decisively. He considered Pons a moment longer, his eyes hooded and considering. Then he set his violin aside. “Come, lad. Sit.”

Pons obeyed instantly, nearly tripping over his feet in his excitement. He took the seat normally occupied by Watson, but his legs were so long that his knees bumped against Holmes’s as he sat. This brief moment of contact only made his cheeks grow pinker.

It was intriguing, Holmes realized. And not just intriguing — it was strangely  _ endearing _ , too. 

“Consulting detective, eh,” Holmes said, deciding on the spur of the moment to humor Pons. “How long have you been in practice, Mr. Pons?”

The lad couldn’t be more than twenty-two, Holmes decided as Pons blushed again.

“Not long, sir,” Pons said. “That is, not at all, sir, Mr. Holmes. I am not in practice yet, sir.”

His eyes flickered bravely up to meet Holmes’s, and then rather less bravely away again.

“I think,” Holmes said, “perhaps we can dispense with the  _ sirs _ , Mr. Pons.”

“Yes, s—” Pons said. “Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

“Still in university, I take it,” Holmes said, eyeing Pons’s clothes. “Oxford?”

“Yes,” said Pons. Then, quite eagerly, “You can tell by the weave of my trousers, I take it, and by the slight smudge of dirt on the hem of my cape, which comes from the alleyway directly to the north of Baker Street, which any student well-acquainted with the city would take to ensure an expedient trip.”

Holmes blinked; he felt rather as though the world had shifted round him. “Yes,” he said, astonished. “You planted those clues, Mr. Pons?”

“No, Mr. Holmes,” said Pons, abashed. “I merely noticed them. You said I must be from Oxford, and naturally I took a look at myself to see what you must have seen.”

“You did so remarkably quickly, I must say,” Holmes pointed out.

“I had the advantage of knowing I come from Oxford,” Pons replied, “and therefore knowing immediately which clues to rule out and which to give full consideration. Indeed, there was no real consideration involved. It’s … elementary.”

And that said, he ducked his head and blushed. 

Again.

“You are a fan, I see,” Holmes said.

The blush deepened. Though he tried to suppress it with all the dignity befitting a young Oxford-educated gentleman, Pons couldn’t resist fidgeting a little in his chair. 

Well, Holmes speculated, he could always find time for his biggest fans. He left his chair then, standing gracefully and calmly before Pons, who couldn’t quite meet his eye. It was with the utmost gentleness that Holmes lay his palm against Pons’s cheek, feeling the heat from the younger man’s embarrassment against his skin.

“Answer me,” Holmes said softly, and to his surprise, Pons’s eyes met his, and they were dark but piercingly sharp.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” Pons said. “I am a fan.”

His voice had been so steady a moment ago; now it was little more than a breathless whisper. He was taking great pains not to lean into Holmes’s touch, holding himself upright, his posture stiff.

And that, Holmes noted, wasn’t the  _ only _ thing that was stiff. He glanced down at Pons’s lap and then looked back up again, a smirk playing ‘round his lips. 

“What are you looking for, Mr. Pons?” he asked. “Are you looking for a mentor? A teacher?”

Pons made no response; he neither spoke nor nodded his head. But he didn’t need to — his eyes said yes.

“Then I’ll teach you,” said Holmes matter-of-factly. “Here, Mr. Pons. Like this.”

And with long, deft fingers, he reached beneath the folds of Pons’s Inverness cape and grabbed hold of his cock, standing upright and warm beneath his trousers. Pons’s hips jerked against Holmes’s hand — partially a reflex, partially a flinch — before he pulled back again. His face was red. His lips were tightened into a frown.

And his breath was coming fast.

“You see?” Holmes said with a smile. 

With difficulty, Pons nodded.

“Good,” said Holmes, and squeezed. “Your turn.”

The hand Pons reached out to him was shaking; he stroked the front of Holmes’s trousers, the pad of his thumb merely brushing over Holmes’s cock. Holmes held still, preventing himself from doing any of the things his body naturally wanted to do — he tried not to betray any of his surprise at the sensation, at the gentleness of Pons’s touch.

By God, the lad was  _ good _ at this. What did he need a mentor for? Holmes could feel himself stiffening rapidly beneath Pons’s hand, and it only grew worse when he looked down and caught sight of Pons’s hooded eyes, of his slightly parted lips, of the pink flush still clinging to his sharp cheekbones. 

“Very good,” Holmes said, and in one quick movement he grabbed Pons by the shoulders and pushed him back hard against the chair, capturing those parted lips with his own. Pons moaned against him, grasping at Holmes’s arms for support; he was entirely off-balance, both mentally and physically, sitting at an awkward angle in the chair with nothing holding him upright but Holmes himself.

And he liked this, Holmes could tell. He could feel the evidence of that pressing against his thigh as he slid one leg between both of Pons’s. The boy parted his legs readily, almost eagerly, giving Holmes more than enough room to maneuver.

He allowed Holmes to kiss him — on the lips, on the line of his jaw, down his neck. He moaned when Holmes’s teeth clamped down on tender skin, but didn’t flinch away. 

And when Holmes grabbed Pons’s wrists and clasped them together, pinning them over his head, Pons gasped and squirmed, his hips bucking against Holmes’s thigh.

It was a joy to teach, Holmes thought.


End file.
